


A TrenchCoat, Gun, & Beer

by Asuna_Miku30



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deastiel, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Short Story, forughdean, ughdean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asuna_Miku30/pseuds/Asuna_Miku30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had all moved on, but Dean's memories and body kept dragging him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A TrenchCoat, Gun, & Beer

Dean tapped his calloused fingers against the wooden tabletop. Rain fell outside and against the roof, a steady, calm beat recurring. He reached for a hot mug.

“Thunderstorms will be spreading fast along the border.”

He sipped at it, recoiling when the hot liquid hit his tongue. The cup was returned to the side.

“Booms and flashes, right?”

Dean sarcastically puffed his cheeks. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“That’s right Hank!”

A lightening bolt sent a flash through the window.  Dean silently counted the seconds until the peal of thunder caused the house to shake, rippling the steaming coffee in his mug.Thunder pounded and the coffee trembled inside of it’s container. Seconds later, a bolt of lightning flashed through the window, the T.V flickering, and Dean pushed Sam’s laptop to the side with a single finger.

Laughter erupted from the screen as it returned to normal.

More thunder sounded close by, the motel room seemingly shaking. The lamp’s bulb beside Dean’s hand quivered, then cut, light going absent. He sighed.

“You know, I was just beginning to believe that the electio-” The News Crew cut off with an annoying snap.

He stood quietly, holding a hand out for guidance as his feet scuffed along the planks. Dean felt for the kitchen island, then moved to the counter, grinning to himself when he reached the strung shades.

He yanked his hand downward, gray light flooding the room. His small victory subsided when he didn’t see Castiel sitting on the couch, and Sam groaning at his beloved laptop, aggravated. His lips fell to a straight line.

The couch was empty. The stool was empty. _Dean was empty._

“-and that is how America is going to collapse in it’s own economy!”

He winced as lights flashed blindingly, the low hum of electricity returning. The rain picked up and it’s rhythm sped.

Dean couldn’t help but sulk across the room. He was alone, though not completely--Castiel was at work, Sam returning to College. Hunting was behind them all.

Or, at least, that’s what Sam claimed.

Dean was struggling with his sleeping pattern, awakening to re-hydrate himself. He passed by Castiel’s room first-he was twisting and turning, tears cascading along the deep set wrinkles uncontrollably.

It took every strained strand of strength and willpower Dean could manage not to strut into the room and lay beside him, massaging his thumb into the dip of his back, kissing the nape of his neck, whispering sweet, gentle promises of safety into his ear. It took _everything_ of him. It asked too much. It was purely egaughsting.

But that wasn’t enough;Sam’s room came next. Sam brushed off Dean’s questions about the dark bags appearing underneath his dull eyes. He ignored his jabbing points to the yawn his brother attempted to stifle. He left the room when Dean suggested they all take an hour to rest. Even Sam’s actions were slowing.

He would silently peak through the cracked door, biting back a sigh when he saw him, sitting in front of the window, his head on his hands. Sam shook with silent sobs. He only glanced up to look at the stars, then dropped his head as if it were to heavy for his shoulders, legs crossing helplessly. Every night. Every damn night he was perched there at the foot of his bed, the covers untouched. No sudden clash or creak made him flinch. It was as if he were numb.

“You know, Jack, society is becoming very violent.”

“Is that so?”

Dean threaded his fingers through his hair, the short locks clumping and sticking in wild-looking directions. He leaned himself against the cool granite top.

“Yes, if you would look at these studies from 2012-”

A ring was emitted from the jean pocket on Dean’s thigh.

He rushed and flipped the front upward, bringing the device to his ears and lips, desperate for a distraction.

“Dean?”

“Hey Sammy, what’s biting your ass at this time? Don’t you have some smart-kid-things to get to? Girl problems? Don’t forget, you’ve gotta lose that virginity some time, to a good looking girl, one that won’t die to some, er, _unnatural occurrence-_ ”

“I’m calling to see how you’re feeling,” Sam cut off.

Dean gave a thick swallow before chuckling almost too deeply. “M’ doing grand. Bored with Jack and Hank over hear, their names are so common. Have you ever noticed how Weather men’s names are so simple? Because I have, and it’s just-”

“Is Castiel at work?”

“-stupid. Wait, Why do you ask?”

“You never watch the news.”

He gave a defeated exhale.

“Yeah, I know.”

"I can come home. School's dragging on, it'd be no problem," Sam said.

Dean shook his head, despite Sam being unable to see him. The last thing he needed was his brother skipping on classes to check on his mental health. He was fine. It was Sam who wasn't. Sam and Cas. They were the unstable ones, not Dean. He was fine.

"No, Sammy, m' fine. There's no need for you to come back home, just wait until the weekend when you don't have you fancy-ass classes taking up your time."

Sam paused on the other line, his breaths shaking slightly, almost as if he were trying to calm them. "You feeling alright, Sam?"

"Yeah, peachey Dean, peachey."

"Did you sleep last night?"

He could hear Sam smile through his tone. "Yeah, yeah. Dean, stop worrying, I'm doing great. Getting high scores, working hard--everything is grand."

Thunder rattled the cheap shingles over Dean's head, and he carded his hand through his hair again, letting out a sigh. "You know, you are such a terrible liar, Sammy, you didn't sleep at all."

He tapped his fingers along the granite,  nails tracing circles and a low hum emitted from his throat, brows furrowed. He didn't sleep either the night before and had heard everything shifting through the walls. Sam's small sobs. He pleading whispers for Jess back, for mom back.

“Oh?” Dean picked up on the heavily-laid sass in his brother's tone. “And you would know that how?” He pushed from the countertop and paced on auto pilot, finding himself with a beer in hand, eyes positioned straight ahead at the weather men chuckling. “Needed a drink.”

“Ah,” Sam muttered. A clash was followed by giggles on the other end, muffled by his breathing. Dean shifted. “Gotta go? Too busy?”

“No, just, uh, working. Working, Dean, school.”

He gave a small sigh and moved his head to glance out the window for a mere second before clearing his throat. “I’ll see you this weekend, maybe tomorrow,” He pressed his thumb to the red ‘end’ button on his cell, not giving a chance for Sam to respond. Dean slowly let his hand fall to his side and stared at the protruding screen, words and contacts fuzzing for a moment. The T.V blared in his ears, making him wince at the sudden noise.

The electronic slipped from his fingertips, hitting the floor with a crack, causing him jump back and curse under his breath, snapping him from his moment of zoning.

It bounced on it’s case twice before rattling into a stop on the wooden planks.

Dean bent and lifted it softly off the ground, eyes stopping at the contact below Sam’s. It was three simple letters, but he found himself rereading them, unable to process the meaning. _‘C’_. Alone that letter meant nothing. But following it, an _‘A’_. Still, no importance whatsoever. Finally, an _‘S’._ He could trash that letter any day with a second glance. But, smashing those useless curves and lines together, Dean perceived a name that rang through his head constantly. _Cas._

Castiel was working at some high-end industry, dressed in his suit, hair combed neatly to the side, his old, crooked blue tie worn with years replaced with a simple, stiff grey one. He could suck it up and press the call button beside those three letters, but a welling pit of anxiety filled throughout his organs, making him think twice.

He could be interrupting something. He could distract Cas, or get him fired.

Dean shook his head and let the phone clatter back to the floor, turning away and throwing back the last of the beer, and set the bottle in the trash gently. Lighting struck from outside the window, thunder following shortly after.

“Now Hank, it looks like we’ll have to close our four o’clock session for the five! They should be rolling straight in with the weather!”

Rain lifted. Dean rested his hands in the creases of his forearm and bicep, heading straight for his room. His mind was swimming, but not. He was tired, but not. He was confused, but not. He let out a strangled groan, slipping his shirt over his head and tossing it to his door, the hem of the neck catching the brass knob, swaying slightly from the force.

A single plank creaked under his weight. He licked his lips and scanned the kitchen and ‘family room’ for anything he could have left behind. After a few rounds from the stool sitting by a lone window, to the TV, couch, and rug, to the countertops, cabinets, and circular window above the sink, Dean let his muscles relax, not realising the tenseness until relieved.

Soundlessly, he entered his room and collapsed onto the stiffened bed, cringing when the springs creaked from underneath his body. He reached for a pillow, lifted it above his head, then chucked it aimlessly to the opposite wall, boredom at it’s peak.He let out a satisfied grunt when it slid to the floor.

His eyes darted to the shining silver that was pressed into the covers from the weight of the pillow, sitting himself up onto his elbows lazily. A loaded pistol sat there quietly as Dean reached across his body for it, picking it up into his hand effortlessly, a small grin growing. He moved back and rested it across his stomach, shivering when the cool metal touched his skin. His heart rate picked up.

A simple engraving of ‘J.W’ was at the bottom of the handle, the untouched metal shining against the  worn. Dean ghosted his thumb over the letters. They were meaningless. They were stupid, meant nothing, and didn’t define him. They didn’t control him, didn’t make his life valuable, they didn’t tell him who he was.

“Yes they did.”

The whisper was so soft and hoarse, Dean barely heard himself.

J.W. John. John Winchester. A small smile tickled the edge of his lips. His dad. The one he was proud of, the one he protected, the one he was loyal to. That would never change. Not ever. He was told to protect him. nProtect Sammy, don’t ever look back. He did-he protected Sammy with his life. He did his job. Sammy was safe now.

J.W. C-a-s. S-a-m. Letters. Damned, stupid, pathetic letters. They could kill him, or set him free, all depending on how they were used. All depending on what other jumbles of letters they were crammed with. All depending on the tone of voice they were paired with. The could kill. They could release.

Thunder pounded against the sides of his room.

Lighting pressed through his window pains.

Rain was thrown against the glass.

“Let’s not be stupid now,” he muttered to himself. He sat up and removed the weapon from his abdomen, goosebumps spreading from the absence of the metal, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed frame. His shakily stood to his feet. Dean kicked his heel against the back of his ankle and pried the shoe from one of his feet. He switched sides before he trudged out the room and to the left.

The scent of honey and dew his his nose the second he stepped foot past Castiel’s door frame. Books lined the shelves of a book case, with papers and notes scratched onto them stuck from the inside of the covers in various shapes and sizes, neatness and color. His bed lay unmade. A single cushioned chain sat by the far wall, the blinds pulled to reveal dark clouds and a blur of falling water. A simple dresser sat in the corner with three picture frames atop it. Dean stepped onto the rug Cas refused to leave in the store, the soft fur inching between his toes.

He allowed himself to grab a grey t-shirt from the floor, flipping it to read the front. _ACDC_. He nodded to himself, laughing under his breath. As he folded it neatly, he walked to glance at the books crammed into the shelves.

They were sorted, clearly, and Dean read the titles off to the air around him.

He started with the top of the case- “Pride and Prejudice. The Great Gatsby, To Kill a MockingBird, Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights, The Catcher in the Rye, Animal Farm. Of Mice and Men.”

He couldn’t help but smile at Castiel’s classics collection. He tucked the sleeves behind the shirt’s back.

The second row was human behavior. These books were littered with scrap paper, with blotches of ink seeped into the creases of the pages, and corners bent. Dean leaned forward to sniff the edge of a book stained brown--black coffee. Cas had managed to spill black coffee on his book.

“The Grimm Brothers’ Tales,” He read.

“Sleeping Beauty, The Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, Aladdin, BlueBeard, Alice in Wonderland, Thumbelina.” He ran his index finger along each book, moving it closer to him when the book protruded out, pointing it further away if it was hidden farther back into the case. “And The Little Mermaid.” He gave an elated sigh.

 

_“I like how she was able to overcome pain for love.” Castiel’s eyes hinted a sparkle as he whispered to Dean shyly, threading his fingers through his hair. “Oh?” Cas nodded, a small grin spreading cheek to cheek. “Yes, and the fact that she decided against it and got to live happily in the afterlife. I like how she decided to go after something she wanted; afraid, but strong. That’s admirable.”_

_Dean nodded, taking in his every word like a kid listening to stories. His eyes flicked over Cas’ dimple in his chin, to the mess of hair on top his head, to the sparkling blue eyes that stared into his green ones._

_The moment of admiration ended when Castiel pushed of his side to stand and wrap his trench coat around his shoulders, grabbing a bloodied blade from the table. The excitement was gone from his expression as he stretched._

_“Let’s finish that hunt.”_

 

Dean set the shirt on the foot of the bed, smoothing his hand over the lettering.

He shook his head, then glanced behind him. A small, cuffed sleeve was reflected faintly in the window. He stepped closer, rolling his shoulder, then turned around and moved to creak the slide door open.

The bloodied, scuffed, and worn trench coat lay on the floor in a bundled heap. Dean bent at his waist, wrapping his hands around the shoulders, and lifted it to his eye level. It had a small, single hole in the hem of the under arm. Dean brushed the tip of his thumb against the fuzzed patches were it was obvious Castiel had attempted to rub the bloodstains out with a cloth. A button located near the bottom was chipped and a small dark streak of demon blood, Dean had guessed, landed itself on the back’s center.

Hesitantly, the fabric was lifted to Dean’s cheek. He pressed it against his lips, eyes shutting as a sigh shakily escaped his chapt mouth. He moved it to his temple and along the side of his face. He leaned into the cloth, comforted, warmed. _Cas._

The lost Cas. The angel who raised him from perdition, got him out of purgatory, and constantly risked his life to save and protect his ass. The angel who was now stuck in an office with real people, dealing with real-life situations, meeting high expectations, and managing to pay for his and Sam’s rent. The angel that constantly put up with his shit. God did he hate himself for it.

Dean slipped a bare arm through the sleeve. Silk rested on his skin and he fit himself into the other sleeve, tugging the side flaps to his chest. Castiel. He trailed the band and fastened it just above his v-line, satisfied with the fit.

Another clap of thunder, this time accompanied by a harsh whistle of wind.

Dean picked up static from the other room, the tv blown out. He glanced at the window, green eyes gazing slowly over himself, pointing out every flaw. He stayed unnaturally still in the stuffed silence.

His throat seemed to close firmly around the lump formed inside, making it impossible for him to swallow the sickening feeling.  He turned his chin downward, fiddling with the coat's cuffs, breaths ragged and tight. The fabric twisted with his actions, scratching along his skin, prickling him. He no longer felt relaxed in the article. Dean limply untied the strands and let the coat slip from his shoulders, watching carelessly as it fell to the ground.

Thunder shook the house again, the book shelf rattling. Thumbelina and The Great Gatsby dropped with a thud.

Dean watched them, unmoving, waiting for the pages to somehow magically fly back to where they belonged, safely resting on the wood, smashed between the other ones similar to them. He didn't want to shift from his relaxed state.  Moments morphed by and Dean dragged himself the few feet to crouch in front of the covers, grazing his nails along the spines, tracing them into the print. He pulled his hand back, then pressed it around the books, gripping them and heaving himself upward to stand.

"See Cas? I'll fix it. I can always fix it, I promise," He murmured to nothing.

Dean placed the books back into their slots. He lifted the Trenchcoat from the floor, folded it, and set it beside his old t-shirt. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyelids before continuing and plucking the small notes that had unattached themselves. He flipped a yellow one over in his palm.

_‘Five Stages of Grief-’_

He turned the paper over.

_‘Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance’_

Denial, anger, and bargaining were crossed out neatly. Cas’ handwriting was smudged from his hand skirting across the fresh ink. Dean tucked the slip into the fold of Thumbelina.  He shook the writing from his head and moved onto the next two torn off pages. The first one wasn’t a sticky note, but lined paper with _‘Missing??’_ scrawled on it in orange colored pencil.

Below that stated, _‘Possibly missing old habits?? Missing old routines? Recreate old memories?’_ Dean let the tips of his mouth fall. He brought the other paper beside the _‘Missing_ ’ one. It read ‘No longer happy or amused--doesn’t seem awake--not much conversation’ His eyes flicked from each note, then to the Thumbelina book, yanking it from the shelf and tossing the cover open, pulling out the first sheet. He set them beside each other on the bed.

His paused his actions, thinking over all the books Cas owned. Each of them had to at least have had up to thirty scribbled-on paper, and Dean didn’t have the patience to read over them all. His pursed his chapped lips. The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies.. He skipped halfway along the Classic row and down to the fairy tales. Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Aladdin...The Little Mermaid. His eyes sparked as he reached for the book, turning it’s stiff cover over and to the side. Dean curled his finger around his stubbled chin, turning on his heel to face the bed. His looked from the inside of the book to the notes, then back to the book, thinking everything over.

A pen-sketched drawing of a mermaid was on the right loose page, a bright green sticky-note stuck to the back of the cover. The mermaid was young and holding falling water in her petite hands, a soft smile on her lips, with a fish’s tail pressed against the side of a rock. She was beautiful. She was realistic and mature-looking.

Dean caught himself marveling over the girl, then quickly snapped his attention to the cursive note. It was also done in pen. He froze, his eyes locked on the words Castiel jotted down. He read them. Then he read them over. And over, and over. He read them until his mouth slacked, dumbfounded, and the words felt like peanut butter to the roof of his mouth.

“Make Dean happy and show you care like Ariel showed Eric. Show him he’s not alone, but loved.”

He didn’t move as Castiel pushed himself off the door frame and towards Dean. He shut the book when Cas looked over the shoulder, as if it held secrets they didn’t both know.

Castiel rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder for a moment as he walked towards his bed, taking the ripped paper into his hand. He looked over at the folded clothing, smiling gently, “Thank you.” He turned back around and lifted the book from Dean’s hands. Dean let his arms fall to his sides. Cas opened the book a turned the pages over in his hand, stopping at a specific one and tucking the note into its page’s crease. He stuck to the same pattern for the second, then third one. He then stood in front of Dean and avoided his stare, reaching his arm past his head to place Thumbelina and The Little Mermaid in their correct place.

Dean watched him, opening his mouth, then closing it with nothing to say. Cas slowly rocked back onto the balls of his feet, giving Dean a winner’s smile. He cleared his throat with red dusting his cheeks heavily. Castiel stepped backwards as he lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, his hair brushed in odd directions. He reached for the _ACDC_ shirt and wrapped it over his head, moving his arms through the short sleeves and pulling it down over his chest. He carefully unfolded his trenchcoat and hesitantly pulled it around him.

Dean couldn’t move--Castiel was supposed to get home an hour from now. He wasn’t let off from work until four,  it took thirty minutes to drive here, and he always called Dean when he was in his car, pulling out of the parking lot. He should have gotten at least one forewarning. How had he not have heard the door? Or the car pulling in and parking?

Castiel stood in front of Dean, his brows furrowed. Dean’s mouth twitched helplessly in attempt to pull an excuse from thin air, explaining why he was intruding and searching through Cas’ things.

“You’re upset,” Castiel muttered, his eyes flicking over Dean’s features, hungrily searching for any new signs.

Dean shook his head, letting out a huffed and forced laugh, his eyes trailing across Cas’ shoulders.

“You’re shirtless.”

Dean moved his head to the side quickly, stopped, his eyes moving to his chest before he slowly changed the motion his head bobbed, giving the answer of ‘yes’.

Cas’ mouth twitched, but returned to the straight, pressed line. He didn’t move closer or further from Dean, standing still, his eyes focused intensely on his, looking as if he were deciding something in his head. Dean swallowed again, his tongue picking up the taste of his earlier beer in the crease between his teeth and bottom lip as it traveled around the inside of his mouth. He brought it against his front teeth.

“Have you been sleeping?” Castiel asked, his eyes squinting, making it difficult for Dean to stare into the blue orbs. He could see only half of them and disappointingly looked away.

“Somewhat, I wake up to get drinks--what does this have to do with anything, Cas?”

“Are you upset?” He repeated.

Dean frowned and shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me, Dean.”

“I-..No, yes, maybe? What do you want me to say? I mean, I guess I miss our old hunts, and our motel rooms, with a few hours of sleep thrown in, and the different bars we could visit, and all the different places-”

“You are upset. Would it be outrageous enough to call it depression?” He cut off.

Dean cocked his head to the side. “What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel’s stare hardened, but his eyebrows lifted. He rolled his shoulders back.

“Wait..,” Dean said.

He stepped past Cas and moved to sit on the bed, his knees aching from standing half the day. His elbows fell onto his thighs as he leaned forward, head tilted and eyes shut half way.

“Those papers were about me? All of them? The stages of grief, those notes, all of it?!”

Castiel’s mouth opened halfway, then fully as he carefully chose his words. “Yes, but-”

“Cas, I’m fine, I don’t need any help.”

Cas watched him doubtfully, but didn’t push it farther. He adjusted the cuffs around his wrists, head bowed, eyes focused on Dean anyway the position.

Dean didn’t move his gaze on Cas’ eyes until he felt a sweaty chill creep up his spine, quickly flashing his eyes to his palms, pressing them together until the skin went white, then red, and then flesh tone. He tapped his thumb against the back of one of his hands.

Castiel cleared his throat, demanding another answer silently. “Dean.”

“What, Castiel?” He replied snarkily, a slight grin slipping onto his face.

Cas pursed his mouth with slight aggravation. _“Dean.”_

He sighed, pressing a foot on it’s heel, then switched feet after he rolled it around on the floor.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” He said. Dean gripped his hands around his knees, using them to help himself upward, helping himself out the room. Castiel watched him, face plastered in confusion.

“Where’re you going?” His voice was low. He untied to the coat and shouldered it off, bringing it around and to his stomach. Dean lifted his eyebrows and looked back at him. “Letting myself out? I kinda intruded on your room-”

“You weren’t bothered by it or stopping any time soon, until I walked in,” Castiel sassed,”And you decide to leave when I’m back?”

His voice hinted slight anger, and Dean stayed quiet, not stopping his upcoming input. Dean bit the inside of his cheek, moving his arm to turn himself in front of Cas directly. “Oh?” He kept his head tilted slightly.

“You always avoid me. Did I upset you? Did I do something wrong?”

Dean let a low laugh emit from his chest. He shook his head. God, Castiel was always wrong. He was always wrong and always getting the wrong perceptions, always outsmarting Dean but always making Dean go back over what he had just said, always messing with Dean’s thoughts and actions.

“No, Cas.” He said.

Castiel’s frown grew even more, parts of his face growing dark from the shadowing. Thunder pounded against his window pane, demanding to be heard, lighting following quickly after. The grey scenery caused a depressing feeling to settle into the pillows and single chair, into the carpet and walls. Rain no longer fell, but the clouds grew darker, breaching the thin line between extremely dark grey and black.

Dean patted his hand against the wall and rotated around to walk from Castiel’s room. Cas watched him, eyes widening. He waited until Dean was completely gone, and the door to his room was shut with a light click. He brought the trenchcoat to his nose, inhaling the scent mixed with the air in his room. It smelled of smoke and alcohol, sending a surge of gentle relief through his veins. He then folded the sleeves to the buttons, lining them up, and then folding it again, and again, before rocking onto the balls of his feet to reach the top of his bookshelf, tossing the clothing piece to the top, the flaps coming undone from their pinched position.  

“Dean?” He called out.

Dean searched his drawer for a shirt of any kind, fingertips ghosting over the fabrics and patterns. He shook his head at each article, biting his lip pickily. He kicked the drawer shut with one of his toes as he began to walk to his closet, desperate for another shirt, other than the one he was wearing earlier that day.

“Yeah?”

He slid open one side of the closet and jammed his hand against the opposite side, jerking it from it’s jammed state. His eyes skirted over a few band shirts, then normal t-shirts, and back to the band shirts. He thumbed through a few, stopping at an old Metallica shirt. Dean examined the cloth for holes or spots before lifting it from the hanger.

He brought it around his neck, pushing his hands through the long sleeves, impatient to cover his arms and bare chest. He moved his hand forwards, then backwards, fitting the knitted shirt to his stomach.

It wrapped around him with a tight tug and he fiddled with the sleeves, pulling them from his wrists to around his fingers and hands, rubbing them together warmly. The heat flickered and shut off, and his single lamp doused, outlet puffing out a curl of smoke.

“Do you miss hunting?”

He could hear Castiel lean against the wall between his closet doors and book shelf, pressing to Dean’s closet. He lifted up the hem of his shirt to undo the buckle and begin to slip the belt through the loop-holes.

“Sorta.”

He slipped the tail through the last hole and tossed it to his chair in the corner, moving four of his fingers along where it had pressed a red mark to his waist, relieving his skin somewhat. He gave a small groan, stretching his arm behind his head, tapping the nape of his neck with a single nail.

“Hey Dean?”

“What, Cas?”

His fluttered his heavy eyelids shut. Dean moved across the room and swatted at a free nat, knocking it against the window, it’s now-dead body falling to the window sill. He reached outwards and clutched the curtains, yanking his hands in front of his chin, the grey light falling back from his floor, wall, bed, and chair.

He ran his hands through his hair tiredly, sleep finally catching up to him, the bags under his eyes growing a bit darker than the day before. Alcohol stung the tip of his tongue when he gagged on his spit. Dean found himself falling back and onto the hard, spring bed, instantly shifting to his stomach and curling his hand underneath his cheek.

“I love you.”

Dean eyes grew heavy enough to shut entirely, his breath slowing to a soft, easy pace, limbs growing settled and calm, mind relieved. He exhaled.

“‘Love you too, Cas.”

His lips twitched into a tired smile, the scent of honey dew flooding his nose as Castiel slung his trench coat around his shoulders and back.

“Yeah,” He whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it, remember to:  
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> Comment!  
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> And share!  
> Also, building comments and help improving is really great! If you could, please give me some constructive Criticization


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